The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  Once inside, he glanced around until he spied Eleanor’s father at one of the whist tables. Although he was tempted to simply walk straight to the Earl of Middleton, he instead wandered about, looking as if he were searching for a game to join. When he finally stood next to the earl’s table, he held his hands at his back and waited until Middleton gave him a glance. “Wakefield,” the fellow earl acknowledged with a nod.

  “Middleton,” Charles replied. “When you’re finished here, I would appreciate a word, please,” he said and then took his leave of the card room.

  The Earl of Middleton watched the Charles Goodwin take his leave of the room, wondering why the younger man would want a word with him. His curiosity piqued, he gave his fellow card players an apology and made his way out to the main room of the men’s club.

  He found the Earl of Wakefield settled into an upholstered wing chair, a glass of whiskey held in one hand as he stared at the fire. “Curiosity has me stepping away from a rather lucrative game of whist,” Middleton said as he took a seat in an adjacent chair.

  “I didn’t wish to interrupt,” Charles replied as he straightened, rather surprised at the other earl’s sudden appearance.

  Middleton frowned. “Good God, Wakefield. You look as if you haven’t slept in days. Whatever is wrong?”

  Charles blinked. He thought he had actually slept better than normal the night before, Middleton’s daughter tucked against his front for most of the night. “Have you heard from your daughter recently?” he asked, not sure how else to broach the subject of Eleanor.

  Middleton shook his head. “Well, I had a note from her saying she wanted some help with her come-out, but I haven’t yet replied,” he hedged. “Why, pray tell, do you ask?”

  Charles let out the breath he had been holding. At least the Bow Street Runners hadn’t been dispatched. “I would like to request your permission to marry her,” he said, surprised at how easily the words came out.

  The Earl of Middleton regarded Charles with an arched eyebrow. He had a passing thought to laugh at the younger earl, but the man’s countenance didn’t appear as if he were in the mood for humor. “How do you even know my daughter?” he finally asked.

  Charles felt a bit of relief at not being denied outright. “She was in attendance with you at a dinner at Worthington House. Shortly after Grandby married the Worthington widow,” he answered, hoping the earl wouldn’t require more of a reason.

  He did.

  “How is it you want to marry Eleanor after only one dinner? One dinner that took place over ... two years ago,” he amended, his suspicion evident in his furrowed brows.

  Charles let out the breath he had been holding. “She’s rather ... beautiful, my lord, and I am in need of a wife. ’Tis time I did my duty and took a wife.”

  Lord Middleton stared at Charles for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like one of the goldfish in Lord Everly’s giant fish tank. “Why my Eleanor?” the earl finally asked with a shake of his head.

  Charles was about to reply with, “Why not?” but thought better of it. “Truth be told, I ... I feel affection for her,” he said, which wasn’t entirely untrue, for he found himself rather enamored with the chit. He had to be, given his reaction to her sobs when she had opened her valise to find some of her belongings missing. He had truly felt sorry for her, a feeling he didn’t think he was capable of unless there was some affection involved.

  Narrowing his eyes, Middleton stared at Charles. “Did you ruin her ... somehow?” he asked in a whisper.

  Sure he had been discovered, Charles nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did. And I would apologize, but I find I cannot as I truly wish her to be my wife.”

  The Earl of Middleton stared at him for a moment before suddenly bursting into laughter. When Charles merely frowned at him, no doubt thinking he was a candidate for Bedlam, Middleton sobered. “Your confession was so believable, I could not—”

  “Yesterday, your daughter took the mail coach to London and was kidnapped by Lucy Gibbons,” Charles whispered, realizing the earl wasn’t going to take him seriously unless he told him the whole sordid story. “She was sent to my house last night. As a birthday gift. I didn’t recognize her at first. However, the fact that she’s been in my home—and is still there, in fact—means she is hopelessly ruined. I wish to make it right by making her my wife. Will you please give your permission so that I might obtain a special license and marry her in a day or two?”

  Middleton stared at Charles for a long time, his look of amusement slowly changing to one of anger. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” he asked.

  Charles shook his head. “I assure you, it is not.”

  The two earls stared at one another, eyes blazing. “What have you done to my Eleanor?” the older one demanded to know.

  Closing his eyes in an effort to rein in his sudden anger at the other earl’s reaction, Charles sighed. “I stripped her bare and made mad, passionate love to her. I kissed her. I held her in my arms as she slept. I made love to her again this morning. Good God, man! What do I have to say to get you to agree to a marriage?” he asked with a good deal of exasperation.

  Middleton bounced his head from side to side. “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose my answer is ... of course. Whatever I can do to help,” he said with a shrug.

  Charles blinked. And blinked again. “Just like that?” he replied, stunned at the other earl’s rather cavalier attitude.

  Shrugging, Middleton nodded. “Truth be told, I had no intention of helping with her come-out. I have no idea what to do or whom to speak with about what’s involved. Her mother won’t come to London. With Eleanor married, I won’t have to find her a sponsor, or worry about her staying out too late at balls, or find a modiste to make her one of those ridiculous gowns she would have to wear to be presented to the queen.”

  The Earl of Wakefield frowned. “Ridiculous gowns?” he repeated, not sure what the other earl was talking about.

  “Oh, you know. Those gowns that have the wide ... hips and the stomacher.” He motioned with his hands to indicate a form fitting gown that suddenly stuck straight out at the sides. “So wide a woman cannot pass through a simple doorway without turning sideways,” he added with a shake of his head. “I hear they’re rather expensive, and since they’re years out of fashion, they cannot be worn for anything else except perhaps a masquerade ball. Why should I pay for such an extravagance when she cannot wear it to a regular ball?” he asked rhetorically.

  Charles didn’t have an answer for such a query, but if Eleanor brought it up, at least he would have a logical rejoinder. “Would you like to be present for the wedding?” Charles asked, sotto voce.

  The Earl of Middleton gave the question some thought. “How much is it going to cost me?” he countered.

  Charles sighed. “I’ll marry her by special license. I’ll see to it it doesn’t cost you a pence,” he replied, not hiding his disgust with the other earl until he remembered a dowry might be involved. “Other than her dowry, I suppose.”

  Middleton frowned and sighed. “Ten-thousand pounds,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I should think it’s forfeit given the circumstances.”

  Tempted to forego the dowry, Charles decided he would not. “Take it up with Lucy Gibbons,” he replied, thinking he would like to be present when the Earl of Middleton presented his case for reimbursement to the madame.

  “I will,” Middleton replied, suddenly rather indignant.

  “Good. It’s settled then. I’ll secure a license on the morrow,” Charles said as he stood up. He would have liked to do it that day, but he realized it was probably too late to pay a call at the bishop’s office in Doctors Commons. “Is there a message you would like me to pass along to your daughter?”

  The Earl of Middleton shook his head, but suddenly realized his wife must be sick with worry. “I’ll dispatch a courier to Epping right away. Laura is probably worried to death if Eleanor has been gone since yesterday.” Then he remembered his wife mig
ht not be so amenable to her daughter marrying a known rake. “Tell Elly to write to her mother. She’ll need to apologize. And beg forgiveness. But tell her to remind my countess that she will be spared having to come to London for a wedding.”

  Charles frowned, wondering at the odd comment.

  “Spared?” he repeated. “I would have thought she would welcome a trip to the city.” At least for her daughter’s wedding, he thought, suddenly wondering if he were being selfish for wanting to secure a license and marry as soon as possible.

  The Earl of Middleton regarded Charles for a long moment. “Once your future countess has been subjected to the barbed tongues of the shrews that make up the so-called fairer sex of the ton, then she, too, will want to flee London and never return,” he warned with a nod. He took a deep breath, as if trying to decide if he should say anything more. Apparently he decided to hold his tongue and instead said, “I have a game to return to.” With those words and a nod, the earl took his leave of Charles and made his way back to the card room.

  Charles watched as Middleton disappeared through the door to the card room, and he wondered at the man’s parting words.

  Barbed tongues? Shrews? Faith! Just what kind of women made up the current crop of young matrons?

  Chapter 27

  A Knight Returns

  Four-thirty in the afternoon

  Arthur Goodwin was nearly to Marylebone Street when he realized he could not simply accept what his brother was about to do—marry a chit because he had ruined her.

  It wasn’t fair to the chit!

  Eleanor Merriweather was the daughter of an earl. Poor girl. She didn’t deserve to be saddled with his rake of a brother. Didn’t deserve the gossip that would surely follow her no matter where she went in London. Every young matron and most of the old ones would find her the perfect fodder for their parlor talk. Other than her father, she had no family in town to see to it she had protection. And he rather doubted his brother was capable of controlling the harsh words that would be said of her. It was bad enough he was well known as a rake, and he certainly didn’t seem the least bit bothered by what they said of him.

  Arthur frowned as he halted his horse near his brother’s terrace. A town coach was parked directly in front, and two footmen were pulling a trunk from the back and hauling it up the front stairs while a woman he didn’t recognize spoke to them with a French accent. Spoke was probably too nice a word; she was actually yelling as she motioned for them to hurry with their burden. When she spotted him, though, she suddenly changed her words to the footmen, thanking them for their kind assistance.

  As Arthur gingerly made his way up the stairs, he found Chester just inside the front door. “Lady Eleanor’s maid?” he asked under his breath.

  “The modiste, Sir Arthur. Lord Wakefield asked that I have her pay a call on Lady Eleanor,” the majordomo countered. “I believe that is the last of the trunks she’s having taken up to milady’s bedchamber.”

  The knight blinked. “What the hell, Chester?” he said sotto voce. “What’s going on?”

  The majordomo straightened to his full height. “Lord Wakefield is to marry Lady Eleanor, sir. Miss Clos du Bois is here to see that the future countess has a proper wardrobe and bride clothes.”

  Arthur realized he probably should have taken his leave of the terrace right then and there, but he would never forgive himself if he didn’t check on Lady Eleanor, at least see to her well-being.

  What if she was miserable about her impending nuptials? What if she despised his brother and was only doing this because she saw no other option? Indeed, what were a ruined chit’s options if she turned down his brother’s offer of marriage? It wasn’t as if she could return to her life as an innocent earl’s daughter about to make her come-out.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he passed the two footmen who had brought up the trunk as they headed down the stairs. Aware of voices coming from near the end of the hall, he followed the sound until he was suddenly the witness to a whirlwind of feminine activity.

  Lengths of fabrics, ready-made gowns, ribbons and what-not surrounded Lady Eleanor as she stood on a small box. At least three—no, make that four—other women were in the room. One was hemming the gown in which Eleanor was standing, another was measuring her arm, another was arranging fabrics on a display for Eleanor’s perusal and yet another was standing off to the side with a bemused expression on her face.

  That would be the lady’s maid, Arthur thought as he realized she was having nothing to do with the modiste or the seamstresses intent on creating what had to be a bridal gown. He almost cleared his throat to announce himself, but Eleanor’s attention suddenly went from the fabrics she was studying to him, her eyes widening to what could only be described as dismay.

  “Sir Arthur,” she breathed.

  Having absolutely no experience with women who fainted, Arthur was suddenly caught completely off-guard when Eleanor’s head fell back and she seemed to float downward. He was aware of a trio of gasps as the seamstresses and her maid realized what was happening, but despite his quick step or two forward, he barely had a hand on her when Eleanor fell from the box. He managed to prevent her from hitting the carpeted floor too hard, though, when his other arm reached under her neck and shoulders.

  The shrieks of the other women were stifled as they all backed away from Eleanor’s prone body, Arthur’s arm still under her shoulders and holding her a bit above the Aubusson carpet. “Do any of you have a vinaigrette?” he wondered, his manner most calm, as if women fainted upon seeing him on a daily basis.

  Miss Clos du Bois stood in the doorway, apparently finished overseeing the unloading of her trunks of clothes. Despite her surprise at her client’s sudden tumble from the box, the modiste moved first and fished a vinaigrette from a nearby reticule. “Please don’t spill it, sir,” she cautioned him as he moved to open it.

  Frowning, Arthur handed it back to her. “Perhaps you should do the honors, my lady,” he said.

  A second later, the offending odor of vinegar wafted through the room, and Eleanor’s eyes fluttered and then opened. Despite Arthur’s hold beneath her shoulders, or perhaps because of it, Eleanor merely stared at him. Her expression brightened as she did so, a smile finally lighting her face. “Sir Arthur,” she breathed.

  The knight gave a quick glance about the room. “I do believe I will need a moment with her ladyship when you are quite finished here,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room. He lifted Eleanor to her feet and made sure she was steady before he gave a bow. “I’ll be in my brother’s study,” he said before he took his leave of the bedchamber.

  He cursed as he made his way back down the marble stairs. He recognized the look in Eleanor’s eyes as she gazed up at him. The doe-eyed look of a chit who thought she was in love. He had seen that same look the night of the dinner party when she had been seated across from him. The blush that colored her face only one of the telltale signs that Eleanor Merriweather had a crush on him. They spoke little for he rather doubted she was capable of conversation. Every time he brought up a suitable topic, she was barely able to form a coherent sentence. When she could, he thought her an interesting woman, but he knew even then he would not look to a debutante to share his bed. Nor a widow or even a harlot. Even back then, he had known he wouldn’t be satisfied sharing his life with a woman.

  He was too handsome, Arthur knew. His lover had told him so nearly every night they spent together. His betrothed had told him as well when they brokered the deal that would make her his wife. But he couldn’t help how he appeared to others. He could change their opinion of him so they wouldn’t be so enamored of him, though, which is what he realized he needed to do with his future sister-in-law. It would do no good to have her giving him that doe-eyed look every time he had dinner at his brother’s house. He dared not give Charles a reason to despise him more than he already did.

  He settled himself into one of the overstuffed chairs after helping himself to a snifter of bra
ndy, tempted to also light a cheroot. His brother would know he had been there, though, and he dare not give his brother reason to wonder why he might have paid another call at the terrace.

  Not quite a half-hour later, Lady Eleanor knocked lightly on the study door before she entered. Arthur stood up and gave her a bow before pointing to an adjacent chair.

  “Hello, Sir Arthur,” she said lightly. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. The modiste was rather ... demanding,” she said as she lowered herself into the proffered chair. “I hope this day finds you well.”

  Arthur nodded, rather surprised at Eleanor’s words. At least she could string them together better than she had that night of the dinner party at Worthington House. “Very, in fact,” Arthur said as he took his seat. “I thought I might take a moment to welcome you to the family, seeing as how you’ll be my sister very soon.”

  Eleanor’s face displayed a smile that visibly faltered. “Thank you,” she answered with a nod. “Am I to understand I’ll be gaining a sister as well?” she ventured, her hands clasped together in her lap in an effort to keep her fingers from pleating the fabric of her skirt.

  “You have heard about my impending marriage to Lady Priscilla then?” he half-questioned. “She is a lovely girl.”

  Angling her head to one side, Eleanor allowed a sigh. “A bluestocking, is she not?” she said, trying hard not to sound too terribly catty with the comment. She knew it was an opinion shared by many in the parlors of Mayfair.

  “She is,” Arthur agreed with a happy nod.

  Eleanor couldn’t help but notice how Arthur’s response had his face to lighting up. “You don’t find that ... appalling?”